A Tale of Two Gangsters
by The Man Made of Ice
Summary: (Only reason the category is as it is is because of character looks, not due to affiliations) This is my take on the North/South Side Chicago war between Al Capone and Bugs Moran with Sonic-based anthros. The difference here is that it's not Chicago, there's no Al or Bugs. All these characters are mine. Some things are directly inspired by real-life events or people.
1. A Church-Going Man

**A Tale of Two Gangsters:  
_A Church-Going Man_  
**

Around this time, things were quiet. The hustle and bustle of the big city had been subdued. It was late and very chilly, the temperature falling below forty with wind chill making it feel like it was in the high teens. The sky was clear tonight, a lovely night for a couple to sit inside in front of the television with hot chocolate and soup and watch reruns. Whatever silence around was broken by the sounds of crickets, soft waves formed by the blowing wind, and an occasional car driving down the road, which were little more than hotel patrons. Indeed, it was a peaceful night in Scacia City. However, in the alleys of the populous city of three million, dark things were stirring.

The ground around a dumpster was covered in black, putrid smelling liquid. It was greasy and looked flammable to some degree. A middle-aged coyote was lying in it on his back. He awoke in a frightened disorientation. "W-what? W-w-where am I? Where a-are m-my c-c-c-clothes?"

Normally he'd be in bed in his pajamas and white t-shirt hung loosely over his left shoulder. His slippers, which had a small hole in the right one because his dog loved to chew on them, covered his feet, keeping them warm and toasty to protect his bare feet from the cold, tiled floor. He'd be lying next to his wife, Shauna, the most beautiful woman in the world. He would hold the bronze Labrador mate by his side, her long golden hair slightly covering her face as she slept soundly. She would mumble in her sleep. He didn't know what she was about—her mumbling were different and decidedly random every other night—but he assumed she was dreaming about him all the time. Here, he had nothing of the sort. He was half naked in his boxers and no shirt, he was freezing cold in the black substance, his arms and legs were tired very securely with razor wire, and his stomach and head were killing him. He really needed to use the bathroom but, from what he could see, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

He looked around him, turning his head back, forth, left, right, up, down and all around to search for a soul, for someone to help him. Nobody was there. He was surrounded by brick walls, a dumpster full of trash, and darkness. He didn't know at all how long he was here. It hadn't to have been long. He could still feel the steel cutting into his flesh. Someone clearly kidnapped him. He just knew it. But who? He was utterly lost for words. He felt a bit slack-jawed, too, like he had been punched really hard in the face. His face hurt and it was painful to move his jaws. Then again, that could have just been the cold. The wind was blowing particularly hard tonight. He hated living on the East Coast. It was so terrible. He never even liked the cold. Why did his wife insist they move here? Because she heard there was more work here. This was her reason and it was so typical of everyone who was struggling to find a decent job. She was just lazy and needed to apply herself. He had a job that paid particularly well. God forbid she one day find the same joy he did. He'd need her then. In fact, he certainly did need a savior right now. He felt like he was going to freeze to death. He yelled if anyone was there. He expected there to be since he knew women were very active in a city like this in these hours. Cold didn't deter such strong-willed femme fatales.

He got his wish at that moment. A small group of six people dressed in suits came walking in his direction. The coyote suddenly got a sinking feeling in his chest. All were wearing fedoras, so their faces were covered in black, but he recognized them instantly. The one in the middle was the third tallest of them all, feminine looking, yet struck the most paralyzing fear inside him. "Sorry it took me so long. Had to make another delivery."

He tried to say something to acknowledge them to save his skin, but his lips were sealed shut. At this point, he forgot whether it was the cold or fear holding him back now.

"What? Are you not happy to see me again?"

"Y-y-yes, Sakina..."

"You'd better be. You're out here in the cold, tied up and naked in front of a dumpster. I'd be pretty bummed out if someone forgot about me. Do you realize how pissed off I'd be? See, I'm an optimist. I believe there's a positive in every negative situation. If I was in your shoes, I'd be mad, but at the same time, I'd appreciate my life even more. I'd appreciate the little things. For example," she stopped for a moment and put her hand behind her back before continuing again, "I would certainly take into account all of the good things I have in my life. I've got two beautiful children, a wife that loves me, a two-story home, a car that works, and a job that pays well. The most important thing, though, is I can wake up in the morning. I can live and face another day with a kick in my step and a beat in my heart. I've got no guilt, no worries, no apprehensions. I've lived another day. Do you feel guilt, Banum?"

The coyote, gulping a mountain's worth of saliva down, was sweating. He shook his head almost in vain to prevent the beads from getting in and burning his eyes. "G-g-guilt?"

"Yes. Do you?"

"W-w-why w-would I h-have to feel g-guilty?"

"I guess I have to jog your memory. You're a grown man and I have to remind you of the simplest of things. You haven't the foggiest idea how pitiful you sound right now. You owe me about $20,000 in cash for a hit you wanted us to do. You wanted to put the 'X' in ex-wife because you claimed she was always trying to take the kids from you. If I recall, she even tried to bring you to court on a false alimony claim? That's pretty hefty. So in order to keep her from being a leech to you and your new wife, you wanted us to kill her for you."

"O-oh..."

"Did that help you?"

He nodded nervously, his brain forcefully jogged back to memory.

"So we did. And we came to you one week after the announcement that we did because we knew you had the money, but claimed you needed time to find it. So understanding a man needs time to his family and to himself, we decided to give you one week to come up with the money or else something bad would happen. We wouldn't say how bad or what, but something would definitely happen. And now time has expired, Banum. We don't have our money. Therefore, you must suffer the consequences," she said as a clicking sound went off, causing Banum's eyes to widen and his body to stiffen up, as if his nervous system wasn't responding enough due to the razor wire and chill making him writhe in more pain than he was already in. From behind her back, he saw her reveal a handgun from behind. From what he could make out, one of her men handed her a weapon. The cocking of the barrel was a deadly reminder of what would happen if you mess with the Mafia.

Banum was a church-going man. He had saintly values, believing in marriage and equal opportunity for everyone. He wore a cross around his neck every morning when he rose, every time he said a prayer, and every night before he went to bed. His wife wasn't a very strong religious woman, straddling that line between Christianity and Agnosticism. However, he still loved her and they went to church every Sunday. They both kept Bibles by their bedsides, but Banum kicked it up a notch by resting a crucifix on the front. He was not a priest. He knew he was unable to be because of his ineptitude in public speaking, but he loved pretending he was one with his wife and kids. He wanted desperately to pray, but all his efforts were supremely thwarted by the razor wire wrapped around his wrists.

He wasn't sure he could be saved now. He was seduced by the whim of the devil. He hired the Mafia, the most evil organization in the country, to murder his ex-wife. What kind of husband was he? What kind of father was he? He was filled with an unimaginable amount of shame. His crime was absolutely unforgivable. How could he have forgotten that she had a family? She had people who loved her, who cared for her. At one point in their marriage, he complimented her on her beautiful spirit and her lovely smile. God, those pearly whites! At that moment, he forgot who he was. He was nobody, a soulless husk, a monster of a man who deserved to die without even a proper burial. He wouldn't mind if they left him to die on the cold concrete, his body left to decompose here in this darkly alley. Nobody, not even God, would forgive him for allowing such a brutal series of events that lead to the intentional death of another person, another one of His children. They murdered her. He murdered her.

"Just kill me."

"Oh, I will. I was going to give you one last chance, but I figured that's just letting another one get away with murder and that's not going to happen," she said as she pointed the gun at Banum's sweaty, shaking forehead.

"No, you don't understand," he said, beginning to lament. "I've killed someone. I'm a marked man. For years, I've gone to church and celebrated the word of God. I love life more than anything in this world. God blessed me with the ability to empathize and feel the pain of people. I may not have felt the bullet that ended my ex's life, but I felt the aftermath of the impact resonate with my spirit and let me tell you that it hurts worse than anything else in the world. Even the mercy of prayer cannot save my soul from eternal damnation. Please just kill me now. If there's any mercy left in this cruel world, I beg you to take my life and let me be judged—properly judged by my Creator. You surely cannot cast judgment on me, but He can. Let me leave this life and show me peace in the life after life."

"Whatever," she said. With one clean shot, Sakina unleashed one round into his head and he fell to the right, limp on the ground. Blood slowly spilled from the fresh wound, mixing with the dirty water, filth, and black gunk he was in. It was then that she took a cigarette out from her jacket pocket, lit it, but did not smoke it, and tossed it on top of his body. He went up in flames. "Let's go." They walked away, turning a corner out of the alley and down the street.

"I don't know about you all, but I'm fuckin' starving," the tallest man said.

"You're always hungry. Jesus Christ, you got the metabolism of a goddamned hummingbird," the medium-sized man added in.

"You know, he's right. I'm getting kinda hungry, too," the shortest man said, agreeing with the tallest man.

"Well, what restaurant is open around Scacia at 2:30 AM?"another said.

The second tallest man didn't say anything. He didn't have to. They seemed to either know what he was thinking, or he was just easy to read. "How 'bout it? Wanna go to Curly's? They're the only place open twenty-four hours. I mean, come on, where the hell else are you gonna get a juicy double-stacked cheeseburger and a beer for a dollar? That's a fuckin' steal, if you're askin' me. What'd'ya say, Sakina? Wanna go? I know your stomach ain't got much of anything left in it, right?"

Sakina, their leader, in the front listened to the five of them banter back and forth about being hungry. Curly's was a small-time family owned restaurant with high-quality service. She would know. Never once did she ever have bad service. The burgers were always delicious, the salads were fresh, the liquor was crisp, and the waiters and waitresses were some of the most courtly individuals she'd ever met in her life. The minute she was out of her beverage, a refill would come just seconds after she downed her glass. She loved Curly's so much. She wasn't hungry at all, but there was no reason not to go to Curly's just to be there. Plus, her favorite server would be there tonight. All the more reason to zoom down Halfway Rd. and turn right at the intersection and see it sitting there with not a single car in sight. "Sure, why not?" she said.

They all cheered and laughed heartily, telling jokes as they all stuffed themselves into their Ford and drove to indulge themselves in late-night goodness.


	2. Mr Devinport

**Chapter II:  
Mr. Devinport**

All laughter and merriment filled the compact space of their Ford. The joyous mirth of the suited gentlemen was so vocal that it could be heard ringing clearly through the rolled-up windows. If anybody was stalking the streets now, they'd be mumbling under their breath of their unruly nature. Or even worse if their windows were down, the sleep-shattered citizens would yell and scream back at them in their comic, enthusiastically swear-filled jargon, which would then awaken half the sleepy city. This was all the relief they needed; to see them collapse one by one, like dominoes, until they all fell down. In fact, one of them was contemplating it. Before he could even reach in his jacket, he was immediately stopped. "What?"

"You weren't planning on shooting off a round _this _late, were you, Mathis?"

Mathis, a hyena with a wide jaw and a sharp tongue, froze in place placidly, then put his hand back between his legs while he tilted his hat with his other. "No. Don't call me out. I was just gonna shine it."

"With what?"

"With my tongue. I just _love_ the taste of gunpowder and ash. Tastes just like grits."

A collective groan slithered through the car, along with some laughter and sarcastic comments. "Now you make me think of some bald dude—really big guy with a "MOM" tattoo on his fuckin' dumpster truck-sized arm—eating a bowl of gunpower for breakfast."

"Has he got the glass of milk there on the right, eggs and toast on the left?"

"Yeah, he's scarfing it all down."

"Like he gives a fuck."

"Tell me about it."

It was a good time between the four men in the back. The jokes they told, the laughs they shared; it was all worth so much more than a simple kill. For a few more minutes, they continued the merriment amongst themselves. They tried to get Sakina into the shenanigans, but she refused. She sat silent, still and unmoving in the driver's seat. She was probably thinking again. They noticed that about her. She loved obsessing over things after they happened, even if the news had nothing to do with them.

The memory of that news report about the double homicide a few years ago was the most pronounced. A man named Martin Gallafante's mugshot was shown. They could tell from the beginning he was shady, what with the multiple piercings, the droopy eyes, and shaggy morning hair. Not to mention he was a pitbull who apparently belonged to a street gang of some kind. None of them were taken aback by the man at all, nor the crime. It wasn't because they were more evil than this guy was—he looked no older than 21; and it was pretty much a guaranteed conclusion without ever meeting mister Gallafante—but because it had nothing to do with them. Sakina, on the other hand, was locked in her room for hours at a time trying to make sense of what happened; in her head, the way she believed it happened. For her, it was like playing hide and seek with a kid and multiple doors. She knows the truth, the boy, is behind one of those doors, but she hadn't a clue which one it was until she opened the one she thought was right only to discover she was horribly wrong.

She was always too caught up in her work to have any sort of fun. She was just under the helm of her father's chair, the Chairman of the massive Valentine Corporation, so they recognized she was probably going to be working hard until the day she died, always having a truck load of stuff on her mind. Their destination was in reach by the dim rays of the headlights.

At the end of the road where 452nd St. branched off to W. Nelson Rd., a small brick-layered diner sat. The less-than-one story building always captured them as it was placed familiarly between an industrial warehouse and railroad tracks, two very noisy ecosystems of steel and metal. They were not making much noise today, fortunate for Curly's. The warehouse was abandoned years ago after a police raid found it was used as a chop shop and drug smuggling base, while the train stopped running down those tracks around the same time. An implementation of another, shorter track route for quicker delivery of their coal and gas and oil, making it more cost-effective for a debt-ridden Scacia City; not to mention far less racket for Curly's obnoxious hungry guests. It was also a business strategy for an aging owner struggling to pay his bills. It was pretty common knowledge that the mayor planned on using the area for a movie set. Sakina knew a big majority of the city's population had an extroverted relationship with gangster and action movies. She'd been waiting herself for the next big gunslinger to be filmed in Scacia; though she'd probably be cursed to wait forever since the city was overwrought with crime and in debt.

She pulled into the desolate lot (just one small grey single passenger car was there, obvious who this was), parking closest to the door. Everyone in the back got out first, all except Mathis who rolled from his seat onto the ground, on his back, hands straight into the air, legs pointed outward and away. "Help me up?" he uttered jokingly. He got familiarly strange looks. He recognized each of them, those patronizing, disappointed, sometimes confused stares being thrown at him from all sides. "What?"

"Get up."

"Why? You guys know I do this shit all the time. Can't help it."

"You know that's not good for your back."

"Well, I ain't takin' up yoga."

"Right."

"Hey, I got back problems. Who don't? I got a bad rotator cuff in my back, so it's hard for me to bend over well. Plus, you guys already know this about me: I'm a bit of a fuckin' loon. Sometimes I get a way where I just wanna act like a crazy person. Don't ask me what it is, but it ain't normal, no sir. Shoulda' brought my meds with me before we left, but I didn't. I already took what was prescribed to me before we left."

"So is that why you look so foolish like you do?"

Sakina, overhearing the arguing between them, got out of the car and decided to join the party. "What's he on about now?"

"Mathis. He's actin' all weird again."

"Really?" Sakina said. She knelt down and got a look in his eyes. "I can tell," she began again, "when he's taken his medicine to control his chronic bipolar behavior, his pupils are normal size like ours would be and he's pretty calm. When they're watered down and diluted and have a sort of liquid appearance like he just got done crying, he's in the process of losing it and needs to take his medicine. I can see...that you didn't take your medicine, did you?"

The scowl on his face gave it away.

She heaved a sigh.

"Goddamn it, Mathis. You know what happens when you don't take your medicine. The doctor warned you of your outbursts without them. So either you take them, or you get tossed in a loony bin. I don't give a damn if they make your head hurt. It'll hurt even worse if you get out of control again. Now you're incredibly lucky I brought them with me." She took a marked white bottle from her pocket and gave them to Mathis. He reluctantly took them from her. "I hate having to make sure you take your medicine, but you're like a fuckin' child. I have to make sure you take your pills on a regular basis. Without them, you're useless to us. So you know what to do. Take two of these when we get into Curly's and get our food. And if you don't, I'll shove the whole bottle down your throat."

"Fine," he said. Raya offered him a hand up, but he slapped it away and got up himself. As he rose, he couldn't escape the fact someone was watching them. It was a presence of an older gentlemen gazing at them with a fatherly expression, a smile imbued with caring wisdom and possibly bad breath. But at the same time, the man was strangely concerned with the bizarre state of their Vaudevillian antics. He felt the tension and needed like his involvement was necessary for a proper conclusion. It was at that point of thought he saw it come true. Standing at the open doorway, an older buffalo gentlemen with a long grey beard stretching down his chin, so long it stretched to his stomach. His brown fur was fluffed, rough, patched, and the tip of his right horn was broken off. He said it was in a skiing accident, but Sakina never bought his reasoning. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Devinport?"

"My goodness, you all. I haven't seen all of you together in a good little while," the old buffalo said as he wobbled forward on his cane. "It's been a long time. How long?"

"One week, actually, Mr. D," Sakina said smiling at him.

He rubbed his chin and gave his head a shake. He stopped in place, his heavy browed eyes giving obvious signs of confusion and memory loss. At almost 80 years, it was clear he wasn't as astute as he was as he stood hovering in his own thoughts, trying to process his friend's answer. To no avail. "Was it one week?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Oh, heh, heh," he chuckled with warmth. "Sorry about that. Why don't you make yourselves comfortable? I mean, why else would you stop by my place of establishment?"

All the while, Sakina looked over her shoulder for anyone suspicious behind them. She was very aware this place was a good spot for criminals to snoop from the police. She hoped no one found him. He wasn't very agile and had a back condition. No way could he get away if he was attacked. This band of gangsters would be his guardian angels, summoned whenever he needed them by just picking up the phone. "So Mr. Devinport, remember any of us?"

To be truthful, his mind was about as fried as burnt grease. The only person he seemingly recognized was Sakina herself, and that was only viable by looking into his eyes and seeing traces of forgotten youth, a man who missed the days where he could run; fight for himself; to remember things without having to force himself to remember; to control his bladder (on top of that, hold it in longer without it giving him abdominal cramps after less than 30 seconds later). She wouldn't blame him if he shook his head from side to side, which is exactly what he did. "Then let me see if I can refresh your memory."

Then, Sakina went through the task of introducing him to each person. She first pointed to the second tallest one, whom she introduced as Darien "The Dealer" Valentine, whose face was partially hidden by the brim of his fedora, yet underneath one could see the glistening whites of his teeth shining in the dim evening moonlight. There was probably a vulgarity between his closed smile; there always was. It was well-known of his close ties to Sakina, but exactly how close those ties held was an estimated guess the average mind dared not proximate. Just like all the others she was bound to introduce to him, nothing slipped past his cautious state of mind.

Secondly was Bruno "Little Man" Travers. By his name, it was considerably obvious to guess his stature, but anyone messing with Bruno had to second guess his potential. Though he did not stand over two and a half feet tall, he was the most formidable occupant of arms out of them all. Most trained police officers could not fire at the acute range of this armadillo, nor could they fire with the accuracy and precision of him. It was rumored that he was secretly trained with the top police officers in the area (this might hold true since the mayor grasped arms with Sakina for her help to catch criminals more vile than they themselves were).

Thirdly, she introduced the tallest of the six, a tiger simply known as Strokes. The reasoning behind his name was a mystery to all. This was something only he knew, a hushed secret within that he didn't even confide in his other mobster compatriots. Only his victims knew the meaning hidden behind those green dapper eyes of his.

Next to him was Mathis Scollini, who was violently rubbing his nose with the collar of his jacket. A vociferous individual, he had a hard time fitting in anywhere. He confided in Darien and Sakina that he beat his mother to death with half of a shower curtain when he was 17. Who would have thought such a heinous act by a teenage boy could have happened by an argument over something as trivial as meatloaf? None of the neighbors ever suspected anything out of the ordinary from the churchgoing family of four. Testaments of fear towards Mathis because of his extremely volatile anger issues came out in brief interviews and one-on-ones with neighbors, friends, and teachers; brevity was to be kept at a minimum for that, but sympathies and elegies were poured on ad nauseam, lasting for days and days and endless days. An insecure teenage Mathis hid under his bed and covered his ears to keep out the perilous ramblings of a drunken old man who spit on him and beat him for killing his wife. He nearly killed his father out of blind rage, too, had one of his friends not stopped him. He was already an outcast. It needed not be further reinforced with impatient stares, fearful looks, and intimidating glares. He couldn't ever go back to school. He could not find work anywhere. He was feared by everyone, his image perpetually slandered by his mother's murder. He couldn't live with himself as he sat miserable and lonely in a dingy cell for ten years. Shortly after his release from prison, he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Such terminology was too far advanced for his brain to understand, but he accepted it, moved on, and eventually found solace in the Mafia, the only place where his anger would be truly useful.

Sakina whispered in Mr. Devinport's ear and he looked over to Mathis. He shook his head.

Lastly was Raya Grey, the most physically astute one of them all. He stood between them all height-wise, but his stature was impressive. He was so visually imposing that those under him would cower and run the other way, and those taller than him would slink down to size in less than a second. He bore a look of ferocity and deep hurt. His hands were always balled up in fists, and he always appeared tense. Raya always looked like something was bothering him. Maybe this was why he was always clinging to Sakina's side. She was the only one who understood his flaws, his problems, his imperfections. He was a raccoon like she was. From there, she introduced herself.

"Sakina Valentine," she began, "owner of The Valentine Corporation, the second largest manufacturer of alcohol on the North Side. Tens of thousands of dollars are made by us every single year and, as such, we provide our thirsty citizens with what they deserve, what makes them happy, what satisfies them. Our workers, whom are only those we can trust, work hard to provide freshly brewed alcohol to bars all across Scacia, which are then sold for an affordable price to bars and the underground. There's more to it, but that's the simple part. We can discuss it all in detail inside. That is, if you feel like it, Mr. Devinport. I know you're old and don't have the time like you used to. I'd understand if you just wanna sit down and catch up."

Even though it'd had only been a week.

The old buffalo had a blank stare, almost like he was gazing into space. Sakina blew in his ear to get his attention. This was the only way to wake him up. She knew how tough it was to wake him up from that dazed state. He did this if he was tired, and he was certainly looking tired. "Aah! Ur—oh! I-I-uh...oh, mama, that tickled! What on earth was that?"

"Oh, nothing, Mr. D. Just a fly came near your ear, so I got rid of it for you."

"By blowing on it?"

"Yeah. He wouldn't move by swatting He was being stubborn."

"Oh," he said. "Well, thank you, nonetheless. I hate flies."

"So do I," she laughed softly. "Now let's go in and get some food."


	3. Curly's

**~3~**

They entered the restaurant, one by one until they were all present. The inside of Curly's was humble. Roses in solid porcelain vases obviously taken from home sat quietly in the center of wooden tables. Lots of the chairs were without arm rests and had no cushions, hardly luxury seating arrangements, but they looked quite homely and hand-crafted. The old dog was delightfully cheap and she loved how resourceful he was about that. If customers didn't want the lovely handmade armless chairs, they could upgrade to four-person booths, which were of arguably higher quality than the tables. Incandescent bulbs shone dimly at all times from above, accentuating the rather natural atmosphere of a family-owned business and bringing it forth to be truly appreciated by those who cared. It catered to the simple, the casual, the individual. Anyone who wanted a wholesome meal without the fillers needed not look any further than the small business known as Curly's, established in 1825, proudly owned today, in 1925, by Alvin Randall Devinport.

Sakina was never fond of big, superfluous mega restaurants. So much to take in. She never wanted to make time to RSVP at the fanciest eatery in town when she could settle perfectly for small family-owned restaurants. A quick in, out was what she cared about: no long waits; no overcharged prices on entrees; no self-serving assholes who served half-baked tilapia and bad wines. everything was simple, yet elegant. And she preferred simple in every single sense of the word. Curly's was simple in every single sense of the word.

Sakina felt a cool air wash over her, not at all different from the winter chill outside. Alvin kept the air conditioning on all the time, at a bone-chilling 61 degrees. He was stubborn with it, too, remaining as firm as a boulder against the hordes of complaints from customers pleading, often times angrily, to turn up the heat. Several different accounts, some witnessed directly by Alvin himself, others by employees, were noted of angry customers storming out of the restaurant, unfinished burgers and chicken strips and steaks left behind to be picked up and thrown away by waiters shortly after. It was common.

Sakina always came with a jacket. She expected it to be like this. Anything less and she'd be disappointed. It was smart of her to do so. She didn't particularly care for his obstinate nature, but she liked the cold. Between him and her, there wasn't a thing they didn't know about each other. She was a confider in his wisdom. She considered him a second father. When she did stupid things, which was more often than she foolishly wanted not to believe, she didn't have her father to turn to. He was a busy man, too busy for her own daughter. What a sad thought, to think her father, such the well-to-do gentlemen he was who practically lived in and shared a castle right around the corner with some of his worst enemies, some of whom were his own family, made no time for his oldest daughter. It disgusted her to the point of wanting to heave. Well, maybe not that severe, but the dislike of her old man was somewhat justified. Seven years is a long time to avoid having a simple conversation with your child. Sakina would have called her right now, surely, but it was nearly 3:00 AM, so calling him was out of the question. And even if he did answer, they wouldn't talk long. He never liked long conversations and preferred a quick chat over an in-depth discussion about things that took place in one another's lives, a true communion between father and daughter—or just relatives, in general. It made her choke up inside and very thirsty. Nay, it was the dryness of the restaurant making her thirsty. She asked for a shot of alcohol. "The usual?" he replied.

"You know us real well, Mr. D," Bruno said.

"Well, I'll let you know right now it's going to be quite a wait. It's just me, my stepson, Jacobson, and Harvey. At least thirty minutes total given how many of you and what you all like to order."

There was a groan, but she was unsure who made it. Thirty minutes was indeed a long wait, but Sakina had nowhere to go and her schedule was practically empty and considering the success of her latest transaction, wouldn't be filling up anytime soon. Sakina, though, did like her meals good and hot. That didn't include a quick warm up in the microwave. She didn't care for her food's flavor diluted by microwave radiation. On top of that, she ate a plate of fish and peas before leaving her house. Hunger was the last thing on her mind. She gulped down her liquor and placed her glass to the side. She didn't ask for a refill. "You sure you wanna wait?" she said to her men, but not at them. "I'm sure you've each got wives or girlfriends who're more than willing to cook you a fresh breakfast in the morning. Warm eggs, French toast, a cup of coffee. And guess what? It's free. I know he's our friend and he won't charge us this early in the morning—hell, the place really isn't supposed to be open—but any other time of day, he would gut us like fishes. That's just how the place is. Food's good, very good, but I'm sure you can get the same here, if not more, for free by the hands of your lovers back at home. Best of all, you won't have to wait 30 minutes. If you're good, that is. How about it? Sure you wanna eat?"

Stomachs rumbled so loudly she could hear them from where she was seated, at the front of the booth, chatting with Alvin. "Is that a good enough answer for ya'?"

"Let it ring a bit louder. I couldn't hear you the first time."

"Well, that's fucking great. So we can't eat? We gotta wait till we get back home?"

"I never said that, now did I, Alvin?"

He chuckled before he nodded. "See? Now there. I'm willing to come back later when it's busy and actually open for business. Don't know about the rest of you.

"The only reason I kept my doors unlocked tonight is because I knew you were coming. I always know. You always show up with Raya with you, that big guy, every night. You always order the same thing, the baked potato with extra butter on the site, broccoli, and rice in place of french fries. You don't always order every time you come in. Some days you come just to talk to me. I think that's very thoughtful to think of me that way. That's why I'm so happy to serve you and Raya. You're always so kind to me. Nobody pays this old buffalo any mind anymore."

"I'm sure that's nonsense. You're the smartest guy in town."

"Oh, yes. I'm not what I used to be around here. Back when I was your age, I was the talk of the town. Curly's was in every newspaper back then and people would pay big money just to chow down on one of our famous family recipes. Whether it was the double decker cheeseburger, our succulent french fries, or my stepson's famous macaroni and cheese, everyone wanted to try Curly's delicious meals."

"So what happened? As far as I'm concerned, there's no reason why people should stop coming to eat here.

"Oh, people stopped coming. You know how that is. One minute you're popular, and the next you've got nothing, just barely holding on. Other restaurants started opening up around, claiming to be better than us, trying to shut us down. I wasn't having it. I was determined to keep the business up and running, even if I was the only one making all the food and doing all the service work, I wasn't going to let my grandfather's vision die. I'm 78 years old now, Sakina. I took over the family business when I was in my 30s. My father's father had more than dollar signs in his eyes. He had a dream of bringing good wholesome food to good wholesome people. Delicious homemade burgers, french fries, and gourmet foods, all freshly homegrown from our own backyards here in America. This restaurant right here is his legacy. It was all he had before he died. We don't have many left, like we ever had. In fact, this and three more are left. Each of them are hanging on by a thread and I think I'm about to lose the one in 23rd St. Some guy wants to buy it from me, but I'm not selling."

Maybe it was that liquor affecting her common judgment. She was feeling a little off the cuff this morning. A vile aftertaste rolled off her tongue, a nasty placebo that brought a minor twinge of pain somewhere inside, but also brought realization with it. All of a sudden she remembered conversations with Alvin, some happy, others not so much. He had ways of avoiding the truth. She knew that. "What guy? Is he some bigwig hotshot? Cause I've seen lots of them, buncha snakes in the grass. I don't trust 'em, we don't trust 'em."

"It is," he said. "Gordon Pennywhistle is his name. Oh, boy, Sakina, if you've never heard of him before, you've probably already seen him in his fancy-schmancy Cadillac, lightly-tinted windows so you can't see all that good inside, but you can just feel what he's got in there. It's not nice, I'll say that much. A suitcase of money to steal your dreams away from you. To be honest, I don't like talking about him too much."

Sakina murmured. The name did sound familiar. It did bring her down to earth, she had to admit. She couldn't believe his name was 'Pennywhistle,' though. The jokes forming in her head at the mere mention of his designation were innumerable. She relished in mocking him for that reason alone. Hopefully it was all she would need to pick up her mood when it was inexplicably soured by her idiotic comrades. Other than that, she drew a blank. Memories of a man with a large, coaxing smile stretching from ear to ear approaching her in a somewhat shady manner popped into her head. It was a smile that she couldn't forget. It carried along with him as often as his hands seemed to hold a perpetual death grip on a brown leather-bound suitcase, never leaving him day after day after day as he walked down the same street, feet jogging merrily in place to carry him to his destination, wherever that may have been.. He appeared to be a lover of life, a passionate aficionado who clearly had direction and great wealth. He knew what he wanted and how he was going to achieve it. He also saw a woman hanging on his shoulder, like a coat one let limp down their back when the temperature made a sudden upswing. For some reason, she appeared just as lively as he did, enjoying his company, flirting with him while she clung to his arm like a lost lover intoxicated off alcohol, she smelt it on her breath, and was desperate on following him down whatever path he headed. Such brazenly strong features could not have been forgotten by anyone. "Pennywhistle... I'm guessing he's a snob. Sounds familiar. What's he look like?"

Alvin coughed up some mucus in a napkin and threw it away. "He's real nasty-looking. He's got that "high-class=one-percent-Wall Street" nature about him. He's got a business suit on and carries a suitcase with him all the time. If you see a guy in a black suit, a black and white striped tie, and pointy brown shoes with golden tips, you'll recognize him. Real fancy fella, I'll tell you that much. If that doesn't provide you with enough of a clue that he's easy to point out in a crowd, he's got a lady he keeps by his side named Mary. She's a cute thing, lovely and petite. If I could use one word to describe her beauty, it would be, uh, um, angelic. If only I were 50 years younger. I've never seen a more precious looking flower in my entire life. I've had some pretty looking women step into Curly's, but there was something about Mary that brought light into the room. He brought her into the restaurant one time and I tried to offer her something to drink, but she said she wasn't thirsty. She spoke it kind of low, too, like she was really shy, but Alvin Devinport knows a fool when he sees one.

"She was the biggest fool from the moment I laid eyes on her. I didn't get a very good look at her face because her head was down, almost as if she was embarrassed or frightened, but I could see a young girl without anywhere to go, who desperately wanted somewhere to call home. I felt sorry for her. She looked lonely. I wanted to offer her a place to stay, but with him in the restaurant, I couldn't attempt to do that. I feared he might hurt her. Or me."

"A girl?" Darien chimed in inquisitively.

"Yeah."

"What'd she look like?"

"If my old mind can trace her details, I can sort of recall her having red hair, redder than fire. And, uh, she had lipstick on when she came in and a beautiful white dress with pearls freckled all around it. Again, she looked gorgeous, that's all I remember."

"And her name was Mary?"

"Mmhmm."

"Did you see if she had anything in her hair, like a clip or something or a bow to hold it up to make it look real pretty?"

"If I could remember, I'd tell you, but I'm too tired. He came and went after he tried to offer me $10,000 for my restaurant. I turned him down in a heartbeat. That's when I asked her if she wanted a drink. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest, like she was his property. Broke my heart, honestly. She looked so innocent and non-threatening."

"What's up with the sudden interest in the girl, Darien?"Mathis said.

"She interests me, that's all," he said.

"With a bland name like Mary, I don't see how you can be attracted to her. Plus, she doesn't sound so attractive when she's going out with a douchebag with a not so bland, but even stupider name like Pennywhistle. Not pushing this guy's actions under the rug cause that's pretty nasty what he did to Alvin, but sounds like he made a not-so-smart move to bag this broad."

Darien wanted to lay into Martin for his highly critical stabs at a person he'd never even met. But he was right. Mary was indeed a bland name, a general name of a girl whose parents wanted to christen their newborn a beautiful name, but picked the first name that popped into their head, the one that would be the easiest to write, identify, and connect with. There wasn't much of a defense he could levy towards defending something like that. However, the memory of a pretty girl, angelic in appearance, with a wealthy man like that seemed to creep into his head and ring vociferously, mostly blurred images focused incredibly soft with little shimmering white lights glistening around her neck and arm and body spoke to him the most. Whether or not her name was Mary, he could only speculate. An old man's words were definitely something to be wary about. They weren't the most reliable people in the world since time or Alzheimer's ate away at their brains as they became older and their bodily function would eventually leave them completely, too. Darien decided to ponder more. He had too much energy to waste on choking the life out of Martin. That was for another time.

There seemed to be a social gathering happening between them. Each voice spoke up with varying degrees of noise, some outspoken and loud while others respectfully drowned out. Sakina liked these kinds of moments, kept them from getting bored and wanting to kill one another. She'd been with each of them for a number of years, all of them being introduced to her by her father—all except Raya who joined of his own recognizance—and she knew they all hated one another, passionately. They couldn't stand sharing the same space together, riding in the same car together, sleeping in the same bed together. Even if it was but for one night, hefty implications prevented any sort of good night's sleep from ever occurring. One or two woke up with a black eye. She had a hard time keeping them off one another. These moments, ones where they really truly got along were one in a million.

Alvin yanked a handful of napkins from the dispenser and stuffed them in his pocket, hoping nobody would punish him for stealing. Something as inconsequential as napkins being stolen bothered him. The feral dog inside him kicked in, as old as he was and unable to stand, let alone run, and fervently chased after those foolhardy criminals, swinging his wooden cane at those who would dare steal napkins from an honest, financially (un)stable elderly gentlemen, In truth, he was a paranoid old man with a heart of gold. It would get him killed one day. He knew it. He looked at his wristwatch and turned the dial on its right side. It fell out of alignment quite often. Being that it was his father's watch, it was quite worn down, years upon years held within the ticking hands slowly circling around it. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. It reminded him of something, someone, somewhere. It made him want to cry. No, he'd done his fair share of crying. He'd done it so much growing up and getting older he swore that after 60 years of crying, his tear ducts had finally run dry. "Everything has its limit," he said to himself. "That's the way God made it."

"Ready to go?" A young man's voice rang clear behind the floral wallpaper hallmarking the gateway to the kitchen.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Alvin said.

A solemn-looking blue-eyed man stepped out, much to the wandering eye of Sakina, His eyes. They drew her in, first and foremost. So blue, so deep like the bluest, cloudless sky unencumbered by none but a single speck of light in the heavens above. The deepest ocean could not descend to the depths of this man's eyes. There was so much blue, she was already formulating theories in her head, silly senseless theories that made her and only her happy. The others noted the Evangelical cross around his neck, which seemed to match the elk's finely tuned facial features. His chef's outfit was beautifully white, spotlessly clean like it had only just come out of the washing machine. How he kept his smock so clean while working with so much food for such a long time was a secret he concealed and strictly told no one. So silly to keep cleaning habits a secret. He was readily identifiable as Alvin's stepson. They knew him quite well at Curly's and he knew them, too, if only through the protection of his stepfather's business.

At his far left, coming out of another portal that seemed to be another entrance to the kitchen or the janitor's closet, Harvey exited with a thick fur coat on and a fedora hugging his black head. "I'm gone, Mr. D. The back is spotless and so is the lobby," the large German shepherd said. He saluted with his oversized hands and walked out the front door without saying hello to Sakina, Raya, or any of the others. "Remember, if you need me, just give me a holler. I'm always available."

"Thank you, Harvey. I will."

"Ready to go, dad?"

"You already asked me that," he said with a brief bit of irritability.

"I know. I sometimes feel like asking you again cause sometimes you forget what you just said. You know how your short-term memory loss is. Plus, it's late. You're incredibly forgetful when you've worked for this long."

"I'm fine, Jacobson. Thanks for looking out for me, but I can handle myself."

"I don't doubt it," he said sarcastically. "Anyway, do you have your medicine?"

"Yes, I do," he said, almost like he was annoyed at the question and didn't want to hear it anymore.

"Just making sure. Last time, you forgot your medicine on your dresser and we missed several important orders. I know we missed a few orders today, but not as much as that time."

"Yes, not as much as that time, which is an obvious sign that I'm taking my medicine. Now let's not discuss my private life around Sakina. Just take me home so I can go to bed, please. It's been a long day."

Sakina, not wanting to be suddenly thrust into a conversation about drugs with a stubborn old goat and his moralistic stepson, she cleared he throat and made up an excuse. "Actually, we've got somewhere we've gotta be. Gotta go check on Laurence's latest club acquisition, see how that's going, right?" They were all unsure of what she actually said, but they nodded silently in unison and pretended they understood what she meant. "Come on, boys. Let's go. Nice meeting you, Mr. D, Jacobson." She cared not to exchange words with him as much as she liked him as a person. She just hated what he believed in. She didn't give a damn about worshiping some god in the sky that couldn't be proven by any means whatsoever. She found it incredibly stupid and she didn't feel like she had to justify her disbelief in religion to anyone but herself. When he tried to speak to her, she responded to him with merely a wave before exiting the establishment, her entourage following squarely behind.

"You know, you should go out with her, Jacobson. She's really a nice girl."

Jacobson sighed as he led Alvin from behind the desk and to the exit, holding the doors open for him as they slowly careened down the path to his junkyard car, or so Jacobson called it, "You're joking, right?"

"I'm serious. You two would make a good couple. I see her eyeballing you in the kitchen when you take the orders. She's got her eye on you. Don't let it pass you by. You've only got one chance to make it right. That's when you pounce on it like a cat. Stealth and cunning. You'll have her. She'll be like putty in your hands."

_Goddamn it, Alvin. I don't like her. Get that through your fuckin' head._ It was what he wanted to say out loud, thick and heavy in his New Jersey accent, but refuted with a simple rebuttal. "But I'm no cat. I'm an elk. Cats hunt elk. If anything, she'll be putty in mine. I've already told you that I'm not into her that way. Maybe you forgot like usual."

They arrived at the final door. Alvin had the keys ready. There were many different keys, each one shaped differently, of different color, size, length, and thickness, numerous, but he knew which one to pick. It was always obvious to him which one it was. Being the owner of this establishment, he was pretty much obligated to know. His fingers magically (that swift magic of his was far beyond his wiggling fingers, shaking as he held a light, but firm grip on his keys) reached for the silver key with the stubby teeth, head shaped like a cloven hoof or a jagged heart, and locked the door shut. It was then that his stepson took the keys away from him. Alvin was too old, too forgetful to drive. Plus, he had a tendency to lose things compulsively, so he would usually relinquish possession of the keys and his car to his stepson while he stayed put with his wife across town. He would pick him up every morning for work. It was a sickening, heartbreaking process he had to force himself to endure, but he had no other choice given his advanced age and deteriorating health. But he accepted fate as it was prescribed to him and got in the passenger's seat of his worn and beat-up box on wheels while Jacobson got in the driver's seat. They drove off, not saying much of anything to one another during the trip.


	4. In the Morning

**Chapter IV:  
In the Morning**

Accentuating the blackness, candles brought forth a dimly ambiance. Only two candles, just two sparkling flames alive, yet still and entirely unmoving. Soft yellow light caressed edges of the ceiling, a rather small area around the ground, revealing only a portion of the floor, and some furniture, most notably a drawer where the light shone the strongest, revealing where the candles were standing alight.

More than that, the candlelight also revealed vague features of a face, the face of a man staring vacantly at the candles to get an answer to a million questions racing through his head. No, he didn't want one answer per question. He wanted a one-all answer to each innumerable query rolling around in his mind. Answers were about as welcome as rain in a desert. His face was riddled with stress. Lines streaked down his cheeks, acclimating his long face that he'd held for so long he swore his face was going to be frozen like that any longer; across his forehead, bags under his eyes, so saggy from pure depression, not lack of sleep like he tried to convince himself (in vain). He stared the thousand-yard stare. His eyes began to dilate and hurt. He had to blink. Tears began to well up in his eyes and streak down his face. They rolled down his chin and hung there as a single drop until more came and caused them to drop from their comforting hope under his chin to the ground, adding to the pool below, size unknown as just two candles didn't provide a strong enough area for great illumination.

Any other morning, the sun would be shining through the guest window, its rays welcoming itself like an uninvited guest, blinding the dreary, sleep-beaten eyes of its guests to an early awakening. A comforting embrace of a new day would be graciously partaken in as everything in the room would be brought out for all to see, the beauty of color a glorious reminder of how precious waking up in the morning was. However, a gloomy contrast graced, nay cursed, the room instead. While little details of the man's room were revealed, the light seemed to give enough detail to some people standing near him that it was a fairly cramped room with little amenities.

In the blackness with the curtains drawn, nothing could held any major focus except the dim light of the candles, but there was little else to go around. If the lights were on and the plain white curtains were wide open, the current sight would disgust anyone with standards towards cleanliness. Clothes were piled in a corner by the door, though they were in a clothes basket and freshly washed, but unhung. His bed appeared deliberately unmade, as if he had just woken up and neglected to go through the process of making it. The room smelled of cheap wine and cigarettes. In fact, the latter was clearly laid around like his Curtains were dirty, stained, and smudged with black spots and wrinkled. It clearly had not been treated in some time. It wasn't torn, however. Surely someone he knew would have a violent conniption fit. New curtains were expensive, too far removed from their budget. But they were able to afford this single story home, comfortably situated in Yukon Hills, a quiet suburban piece of nothing on the North Side. How expenses were kept up with was on his shoulders. $1,000 a month? Neigh impossible. His occupation was utterly shameful and abhorred talking about it, but it kept him busy and the bills paid. At least there was no correspondence between his paycheck and the quality of his room.

Laurence Karsen desperately needed a cigarette. His nerves were shaking, utterly quivering, and he felt like he was going to explode. His mind was on the brink. Sunlight was beyond him. He preferred to live in the dark for today. He seriously contemplated picking up the phone and calling in sick. Besides, he was told he was a pretty good actor even as a kid. He didn't need the lights. Not even the candles. He knew exactly where the phone was. He instinctively reached his hand towards the candle, but raised his arm up before he nearly knocked it down, and, luckily, kept the flame from touching his sleeve. His hand snaked to the right. His fingers touched something cold, plastic. He felt it and immediately recognized it. That was it. He picked it up and started to pull it towards him, but stopped. Not with the candles in front of him. The room would spark to life, but not in a good way. He then shut down all but entirely, utterly lost within himself. He felt all alone, pathetic, hopeless, and utterly repulsive. How he could continue to live with himself like this? His instincts kicked in again as he reached beneath him and grabbed a bottle, already open, and drank straight from it. Then he lit the last cigarette he had and took a nice long drag and punctured the air with smoke rings. Apparently, it was enough to evoke a reaction from the outside world, those within the light. The smell of bacon and eggs (smelt like she was cooking omelets this time) overthrew the smoke and the door creaked open, letting the light in.

He didn't react seriously at all. He was already awake. He cringed, though, when he realized, and knew, who was waiting behind his back. He sighed. "I'm about to leave for work in a minute," he said.

"That's not what I was going to ask."

"I'm surprised. You ask me that every morning."

"No, I don't. This is the first time I've asked you such a question."

He slept in his work clothes last night. He had done so for a few months now, almost as a test drive of sorts because of his grand procrastination and general lateness at work. It saved a lot of time. He acknowledged she was right. "Honey?"

"Yes, Marsh?"

"When are you coming down for breakfast? I smelled the smoke from downstairs and I was worried because you always smoke in your room when you're upset. Is there something you want to talk about?"

"What's it to you?" he responded in a bit of a snark way.

His wife, whom he affectionately called Marsh, was a slightly pudgy grey tabby with a heart of gold. Right now, she wore a slip-on strapless dress stretched down with her knees, made entirely of cotton and flecked with a beautiful floral pattern of poppy blossoms. The dress clearly fit her appreciation for Japanese culture as it was but one piece she had lying or hanging around. They were gorgeous and the dress itself was perfectly suited for the morning until she changed into something more suitable for the afternoon. Laurence, however, claimed she cared too much, that her emotions were depended upon far too often than was needed. They caused her to inconsequentially jabber on about something that she wanted to badly to be wrong with him, but wasn't. "Well, I care about you, Laurence. Is that so much to ask that you care about yourself? I don't mind when you smoke, but I don't like when you smoke in your room. You do it every time you're depressed or worried about something."

Another sigh. "But I do care. When have I not cared except those times I got drunk?"

Marsh couldn't consecrate a viable defense. She was silent.

"Just as I thought. Are the kids ready for school?"

"They're all dressed. They're downstairs eating breakfast and waiting to see you. You barely spent time with them yesterday. They're waiting to see their dad before they go to school this morning," she said. "So do I."

Laurence felt his stomach churn inside, his intestines rumble, his bowels twist vicariously. Not because he was sick physically, but because he was sick of Marsh exploiting his Achille's heel. If there was one thing he cared about more than anything in this world, it was his children. His two children were probably sitting downstairs stuffing their faces with their mother's delicious cooking. He would eventually look over the balcony and confirm her words. Ravenous beasts, he called them at the dinner table; practically unrefined little rascals who would gobble down their meals as if it were the last meal they'd ever eat, but both were nevertheless extensively trained in table manners. "You know, you feeding them the way you do is going to cripple them for life."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you cook so goddamn well," he said facetiously, obviously a complement she caught as her lips turned upward in a wide smile. He then hugged and kissed her before glancing at his watch. "Oh! Gotta go! I'm already running late."

"As usual."

Laurence dashed hurriedly down the stairs, getting to the bottom in record time. Absolutely no time was wasted. No time to notice the coffee made freshly for him always set on the kitchen counter every morning. No time to notice that he was smelling halfway down the gutter. No time to notice his clothes weren't ironed or pressed at all. No time to notice he still had sleep in his eyes, nor foresee that he was almost bound to fall asleep when he got to work. No time to notice much of anything, except for his kids, to their jubilant acknowledgments to him he replied "Hey, kids! Wish I could stay, but dad's running late for work. Gotta go before he catches hell. Have a good day in school, the both of you. Be good, don't get into trouble. Lily, you're a princess, behave like one. Caspen, if someone hits you, hit 'em back as hard as you can. Let 'em know you're no punk. Defend yourself just like I taught you. Break their freakin' nose, buddy. Cause you're no punk. You don't mess with my dad." The door slammed shut behind him and the rumbling engine of his car was heard, followed by screeching tires on the pavement, then the sounds of breakfast continued.

A few minutes later, the school buses came. Marsh greeted Lily and Caspen at the door with their backpacks. With a kiss and a hug, she let them out of her control once again for yet another five and a half hours. Both of her wonderful children waved back at her with big smiles upon their faces. Marsh waved right back with an equally as big smile.


End file.
